


An angel and a demon

by kate_the_reader



Series: Sketchbook [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 100-word Drabbles, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Drabbles, M/M, Promptfic, Sketches, Vignettes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 13:47:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 1,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21272042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kate_the_reader/pseuds/kate_the_reader
Summary: Vignettes from the story of Aziraphale and Crowley falling in love and being in love.





	1. Ring

**Author's Note:**

> A collection of 100-word drabbles written for the fictober 2019 challenge: the stories for each pairing are a multi-chapter story within a series. First published day-by-day on tumblr.

Aziraphale's ring catches on Crowley's hair as he sifts it gently through his fingers, the almost-not-there tingle of not-pain keeping him from drifting fully into unconsciousness in Aziraphale's lap, pillowed on the softness of his thighs — which are soft more in the imagination than in their reality, the way Aziraphale himself is softness wrapped around a core of steeliness.

Steeliness that is not for Crowley. All of Aziraphale's tender softness — of touch, of voice, of word — is for Crowley, smoothing his sharp angles, soothing his anxieties, so there is nothing for fears, for self-deprecation, for doubts to catch on anymore.


	2. Freeze

Freezing time is not something to be done lightly. It’s dangerous, and unpredictable and exhausting. It’s a last-ditch move, the resort of the truly desperate. It’s an out-of-all-other-options endeavour. Freezing time is something only someone faced with the worst possible consequences would even try, would even _consider_. 

It takes the most ghastly threat to get him to attempt it. It takes an angry angel holding a once-flaming sword, promising an unimaginable, unendurable future. A future in which they _might _both continue to exist, but what would be the point?

Faced with that, Crowley risks it all, and performs a miracle. 


	3. Husky

“‘Ziraphale.” Crowley swallows and starts again. “Aziraphale. Angel.” The words grate across his throat, roughened by shouting.

“Hmmmm?”

“How loud—?”

“Not here.” Aziraphale’s voice is also low, husky with overuse. “We were very loud. But no one except ourselves can hear us there, among the stars.”

“Good.” He pulls Aziraphale more closely into his arms, drops his lips to his curls. “Good.” He’s drifting on the edge of sleep, mouth gone almost too soft for words. “Voice … here though. ‘M glad. Reminder ...”

A reminder that they are themselves, their true selves, in both dimensions, anywhere and everywhere.

“Yes.” Aziraphale understands.


	4. Enchanted

At first, Aziraphale wasn’t always pleased to see him when he turned up asking difficult questions, but slowly his attitude changed. He began to look pleased when Crowley dropped in, even when he wasn’t helping him out of a scrape. Crowley couldn’t help it if his visits got more frequent. It was like a drug, the look that came over Aziraphale’s face. It also made it harder, when they were arguing as the End neared.

And made it all the sweeter, afterwards. 

Now it’s not a look he has to work for, it’s just how Aziraphale looks at him. Enchanted.


	5. Pattern

The day is warm and they choose a shaded bench in the park. Crowley takes off his jacket, something he’d never have done before. As he turns to look at a dog chasing a duck, Aziraphale notices the back of his waistcoat.

It is patterned with feathers. Black and gold feathers. Aziraphale can’t help it, he reaches out and runs his fingers across the silk. 

“Oh my dear,” he says, and Crowley turns back to him, his expression hard to read.

“I wasn’t a snake first,” he says. “I haven’t forgotten.”

“No, of course not. And your wings are magnificent.”


	6. Dragon

“You should have seen him, flailing around in the bog, swinging his sword about without looking, slipping in the mud, soaked to the skin, tripping over tree roots, getting his armour all dinged up. And bellowing all the while: ‘Dragon! Dragon! I have come to slay you, Dragon!’ As if he thought I would just wait for him to do the deed.”

“So where _were_ you, my dear?”

“Up a tree. I wasn’t getting all cold and wet slithering around in that damn foggy bog, believe me, angel. I left that to George, the arse.”

“Crowley, you wily old serpent.”


	7. Overgrown

They decide to move on a whim after a picnic in the countryside. 

Aziraphale spies the cottage at the end of a narrow lane the Bentley takes them down as if on its own accord. The place is neglected but what does that matter? After all, they have plenty of time to make it their own. 

Peering through the dusty windows, Aziraphale exclaims over the snug sitting room lined with bookshelves.

Crowley is busy investigating the garden, an overgrown wilderness of roses and raspberries and nettles. So much potential. There’s even an orchard of plum and quince and apple trees.


	8. Legend

"Do you think it'll become part of the story? Will they add it on the end, you know, after what that saint wrote, all his wild imaginings?"

"I hadn't thought," says Aziraphale, "They might be embarrassed, hush it up, hope everyone goes on as normal."

"You're probably right. Pity."

"Perhaps it'll be a legend. People like those, even if they don't really believe them." Aziraphale smiles at him.

"Well, they better get it right. You with your sword."

"And you, freezing time."

"It's not about us though, is it?"

"No, as long as they get Adam Young right."

"Yeah. Legend." 


	9. Wild

The sea near the cottage has many moods. 

On a summer afternoon, calm and smooth, sparkling and inviting. Pleasant to walk beside, licking an ice cream cone. Little waves lap up the sand, tickling your toes, soaking the hems of your trousers unless you skip out of the way. Your companion laughs, either way, matching your mood.

On a winter morning, fierce and grey, wild and frightening, crashing against the rocks at the end of the beach, threatening to drench you. It suits your mood, when darker thoughts take hold. Then, your companion makes sure you are wearing your warm gloves.


	10. Ornament

He had hardly noticed it, the first time at Crowley’s flat. There were more pressing matters, that night.

But later, as they take to spending more time there, in Crowley’s big bed, he can’t help studying it. An angel and a demon, wrestling, the demon dominating the angel.

Crowley’s never given any hint that’s what he wants. 

It is very beautiful, though, the way their muscles bunch. And their wings.

“Crowley,” he asks, “that … ornament, that sculpture?”

“Yes, angel?” There’s a gleam of mischief in his eyes.

“Is that something …?”

“Well,” he says, “I doubt I’d win.”

Aziraphale blushes.


	11. Misfit

Being left alone by both their sides is like the lifting of a weight that you notice more in its absence than you did when you were carrying it. A few weeks pass before Aziraphale realises his stomach isn’t knotted with worry over what They will say, whether they’re watching, when one of them might drop in to check up on him.

There’s only Crowley, free of his lot’s censure as well, and the two of them fit together better than he could have hoped.

“I never doubted we’d fit, I’ve known forever,” he says, looking up from Aziraphale’s lap.


	12. Treasure

There are few things Crowley treasures: the Bentley, of course, the sketch Leo gave him (a nice reminder of a friendship, something that’s been rare over the centuries), but not much else. You can’t hold onto things.

But moments, he has a trove of those. Aziraphale’s face in that cell. Driving through a dark and dangerous London, Aziraphale holding a bag on his lap. A hand holding his on a bus.

Now there are so many moments it’s hard to choose, but here’s one: the first time he opened his eyes and saw him, curls messy on the other pillow.


	13. Ancient

Crowley finds it one day in a small plain wooden box tucked on a shelf in Aziraphale’s cosy sitting room above the shop. Aziraphale is busy downstairs, and Crowley is bored.

The box rattles when he shakes it, so he lifts the lid. Inside is a small blackened object. He picks it up. It’s a silver leaf, much tarnished. 

“How long have you had this, angel?” he asks later.

The look on Aziraphale’s face is terribly tender. “It fell off that wreath you were wearing.”

“When we got drunk over oysters?” 

Aziraphale nods. 

“And you kept it all this time?”


	14. Dark

Over all his long, lonely existence, he’d been pushing the darkness back, first with wicks and rushlights, then with candles and oil lanterns, gas lamps and electricity, until he never needed to be in the dark. 

Along the way, he forgot how soothing the dark can be.

Now he lies in their quiet room, the only light starlight through the window, outlining Crowley’s face, illuminating its planes, casting deeper shadows in its dips, and finds comfort in the darkness. He is not alone in it any longer. He can close his eyes and fall and know he will be held.


	15. Coat

When he hangs his favourite cream coat up, Aziraphale often brushes his hand over the shoulder. Crowley has been aware of it for some time. It probably doesn’t mean anything. 

But one day, he steps up behind Aziraphale and settles his own hand over Aziraphale’s on the coat. Aziraphale turns to look at him. “I always remember why the stain’s not there, my love.” And he smiles in that way that feels like a hand squeezing Crowley’s heart, and purses his lips and blows a little puff of air. “You are so kind to me, Crowley.”

Crowley is left speechless.


	16. Injured

Having experienced the judgment of Gabriel and the other angels, Crowley has new insight into the anxiety that has been holding Aziraphale back. No wonder his angel, so soft and kind, was afraid to commit to their own side, when he had endured their righteous scorn for so long. 

He is ashamed to recall what he said at the bandstand; he hadn’t fully understood what aAziraphale had to free himself from. But he does now.

_I see how they injured you. I will not, again._

He will be soft and kind and attempt to bind up Aziraphale’s beautiful, wounded soul.


	17. Ripe

Getting the cottage into a liveable state takes time. Crowley uses a bit of magic on some of the work. Not Aziraphale, his grace is for other people. Crowley insists. 

It’s a while before he can turn his attention to the garden. Among the nettles, the raspberry canes still bear some ripe fruit. He withers the weeds with a glance and picks them. He tries one: succulent and a little tart. He takes the rest to Aziraphale, offering them on his open palm. Aziraphale pops one in his mouth. “Crowley!” His eyes sparkle with delight. 

Crowley loves this garden already.


End file.
